DANCER

Nobody laughed
when you danced alone
for the second grade, Hershel Rollins.
We sat with hands folded
on our desks, wide-eyed as you waltzed
across the front of the room,
humming your own accompaniment,
one hand on your shirt front,
the other held grandly above your head,
supporting the hand 
of your imaginary partner.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody smiled.
No one had heard of style.

Sister said, "Thank you, Hershel,"
and we all returned to our numbers
and coloring
and forming string-straight lines
to the lavatory.

That winter I saw you at the park
where the field had been flooded
for ice skaters.
Just as the feeble sun went down
you came skimming across the ice
and fourteen floodlights
caught you in their gaze.
Holding the park bench
for support, I watched you whirl,
glide, spin - black-eyed,
skinny, confident.

Now I have children 
of my own.

After I send them off to school
I sit at the table searching the papers
for your name, your chocolate-chip eyes,
your Fred Astaire feet.  Somewhere,
I know, you are dancing
and people are cheering.

Oh, Hershel Rollins, where are you?